I thought I could create perfection -
I was wrong.
It wasn’t my fault -
No, not really,
I tried to make allies with a system that hates my colour,
And tried to fit in to beauty standards that never carried my size,
I played god with my body -
And in the end it didn’t work out,
I took out my weaknesses and replaced them with strengths,
Turns out my strengths were my weaknesses,
And my weaknesses were my strengths -
A lesson I learned too late,
A lesson I can’t replay.
Fate was an opponent already chosen by destiny,
Now when I look myself in the mirror,
The girl I see isn’t a winner,
I see a girl who once skipped dinner,
That led to a slippery slope of wanting to be thinner,
Her body saw her as a sinner,
Tried to heal but health came with a price, she got bigger,
Now she looks in the mirror disgusted by her figure,
And only then she would realise, she only looked good when she was sicker,
Happiness or health? - That question would forever linger.
Food.
Supposedly so good.
Calories add.
I'm mad, you're sad.
The hunger comforts me.
It shows my success and victory.
Dining out this week
dressed my best
and going Greek
was a disaster
dropped my moussaka
and spilled the rest
of my tzatziki
down the chest
of my new dashiki
a messy eater as a child
difficult I always was
instead of chew
I'd inhale because
it's not the thing to do
Another Sky
Is there another sky,
where I could rest my heavy bones,
embraced, cradled beyond this ledge
The drop to hell is far too steep.
Running down a cloudy glass,
the crimson drip of mother’s wine
staining all it touches with a bitter, bloody red.
I measure worth in empty plates.
A parasite gnaws at my stomach's lining,
a relentless hymn I cannot silence.
My scars like ghostly constellations,
a haunting I carry, both burden and compass.
But there is a place where flowers grow in gravesites,
where mothers stitch sunlight into the fabric of grief.
I’ll trade wine for water and darkness for the Sun,
guided by stars that burn in another sky.
Her soul was starved of acceptance
An aching hunger wanting to be fed
Her body weak
Not from the lack of food
But for the lack of love for her skin
Being black meant a life where no matter what she did
She would never win
She couldn't control her race
But she could control her body
She wanted to be invisible
And the only way she could make that happen was to disappear
Her body, her skin, her mind
A place of imprisonment
But she could control how she decorated it
To her that felt like a rebellion
Even if it meant she lost herself
Deep down she knew this wasn't right
But she just didn't want the fight
She was willing to make that sacrifice
With every meal skipped
She got weaker and weaker
Not realising how she was getting closer to death
Mistaking it for freedom
She had got everything she wanted
Just not how she expected
She realised a little too late
How true this statement was
The world wanted her gone
And she had finally given them what they want
We all know that feeling. The one that we don’t want to end. The one that’s so satisfying it’s intoxicating. It starts subtle. Sometimes, it involves thoughts. Thoughts you wouldn’t dare share with anyone. It grows through your entire body, screaming and scratching through every single nerve ending. It spreads slowly, burning down every narrow passage and every inch of your skin. Your entire body is on fire. You feel it growing and growing as you inch towards your finale. It bubbles up, boiling to the top until it overflows. It flows over the edge, violently and satisfyingly. It flows and flows, releasing every tension in your body. The release is the greatest feeling, toxic, infuriating, invigorating, and all so inviting, making you want to feel this feeling all over again… The Release.
Our blood splattered grounds and our winding pavements.
Keeping my head up while I can.
Your blue spirit birdsong,
It comforts.
Just keep crawling, keep gasping,
Just suffocate it all in the red,
I stayed hungry for the thrill, because
Nothing was enough to quench those flames.
Fox-like footprints in our blood-spattered grounds
Are all I needed back then to stay sane.
Can you scamper away before you do what was asked of you?
Just keep your head up while you can.
Keep starving, keep bleeding.
Cheating.
Suffocate in the red.
Not all of us ‘Eat, Pray, Love’.
One plate: a minefield
of coulda, woulda, shoulda,
of clink and clatter
long after a bite.
Taste lingers,
here!
I stare timidly into the softly lit mirror,
Its gaze staring back at me unrecognizable.
I've been told this person is my friend,
But its reflection paints a different picture.
Its mixture mixes a mess of colors I never thought go together anyway.
A bit ghostly.
I trace its outline carefully -
A bump here, a dent there, extra padding everywhere -
So pathetically unfamiliar to me.
So frightening
to me....
To me
to me
to me
to me
Why does no one else seem to see
What I see?
What I see...
I've been told is my friend.
But friendliness bodes forbidden,
Foreign between the eyes of those destined to be one.
When will I learn my body is my friend?
Who honestly teaches that anyway?
I say honestly purposefully.
Lies, all lies.
You see it, don't you?
I don't even need to explain for you to know.
That's how low this show has gone.
I need help unmasking and redefining
this
festering,
fatal
phenomenon.
Colors
Blue the color of her eyes
That hid the pain
The ones that ahead the tears
When no one is near
The ones that have the glow even
When the tears flow
Red the color of her lips
The ones that hold back the tips
The tips that mad her once feel full
Now seeps through the tile floor
Pink the color of the nails
That scream I’m Fine as she stands
On the scale after her favorite meal
The nails that pick up her food
In her pantry that counts
The calories and safely puts it back
Till she screams in pain with
Tears running down her face
And blood gushing out
Me the girl who acts like
Loving herself comes easy
But hates herself more everyday
growing pains...
and so she grew,
because that’s what we all do.
she reminded herself that
her body
is her vessel.
it does more than just
exist
for a compliment,
for a boy,
for a mirror
or for a photo.
she told herself that her size,
and the tightness of her clothes
were not indicators of failure.
the fullness of her belly,
would never determine her worth
she found comfort in words like these.
yet she never,
not once
had to self assure
when her pants hung loose
or her stomach yearned for food,
when her waist curved inwards rather than out
not once,
not ever.
After deciding
To skip this one too,
Soon enough
Her face turned blue.
Thinking what damage,
Could a skipped meal do?
And if one won't,
Then so won't two.
So she sleeps on this one too.
What's a little bit of hunger?
Nothing new.
But she finds herself in one of her biggest fears,
The sound of a siren filling her ears,
Red and blue lights blinding her eyes.
Accompanied by her mother's cries.
Who is wandering back and forth,
Wondering how she couldn't have seen,
That what the news talked about,
Had caught her own teen.
But now it's too late.
To take back what she said about her weight.
To tell her to wear all the dressesshe made her hate.
Now it is far too late,
To change what her daughter-
Chose to be her fate.
Sometimes healing is messy
It is a rollercoaster
Ups and downs
Sometimes I can handle it
Other times I lose control
I say I am in recovery for my bulimia
But I still struggle
I still consider pushing myself that extra hour in the gym
I think skipping lunch that day won't hurt
I sometimes spend too much time looking at teeth enamel strengthening toothpaste and whitening strips
I only look at healthy snack like plain rice cakes and original sun chips
Carboard is not the most appealing flavor
But it is the safest one
I don't have to feel guilty when I eat them
I won't need to punish my body later
Some days though
I will eat the birthday cake and not worry about it later
I will still go to the gym but only spend 30 minute there not 2 hours
I brush my teeth not worrying about if i will cause any damage to them from a purge
Healing is messy
Somedays are easier than others
But I know that I am trying my hardest.
“Mommy, mommy!” I desperately scream at 4, longing for comfort in her welcoming arms.
We are watching a film about the circle of life. The movie showed the sheep at birth all the way to its final stages. Snot puffs out of my young nostrils like the smoke in grandma’s cigarette. My heart is racing in absolute panic as I bounce my knee up and down and shake uncontrollably. “I don’t want to die!” I shout in distress.
And 10 years later I am once again in my mother’s arms, yet all frail and bony like an ancient mummy in an Egyptian sarcophagus. I am laying on my brittle hospital bed with my exhausted eyes blinking even slower than a salted snail. I touch my nose and wince, as my feeding tube is 3 sizes too big. I can hear the whirring of the pump admitting into my stomach with nutrition I was convinced was unnecessary. And with strained breaths and my lips drier than the Sahara Desert, I make out the words “M..mommy?”
“Will you let me die?”
It’s crazy how times can change.
Don’t be afraid of words like thin and fat or slim and large, of discussing shame or diet or weight -
there is nothing wrong with learning and conversation, of mistakes and missteps and change.
Just know that food is neither good nor bad, it’s never a guilty pleasure or even a treat -
eat what your body needs, what makes you feel good. Ignore calories and traffic light labelling.
You will get better and yes, you may relapse, but the future is both wonderfully lighter and heavier
because your body is a living genius: treat it to music and bathing, to wine and incense burning.
I’ll talk to you from the shore, as if I wade into the water with you then we’ll both flounder -
but I’m sorry for getting angry, for asking how you could let this happen. Instead, I’ll listen.
You don’t weigh stones but rather laughter and singing, last year’s holiday and kisses from friends.
Your weight is that of a survivor, not a sufferer. And I know now, son, this also happens to boys.
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